


I'll Make This Feel Like Home

by A_Kid_Named_Hiro



Series: Tuli-chan and H's Prompt Challenge [6]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 00:34:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13601778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Kid_Named_Hiro/pseuds/A_Kid_Named_Hiro
Summary: Promptselected byTuli-chan.





	I'll Make This Feel Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> **[Prompt](https://otpprompts.tumblr.com/post/139296695248/imagine-your-otp-lounging-around-b-is-wearing-a)** selected by **[Tuli-chan.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tuliharja/pseuds/Tuliharja)**

The sweater is too large and — in Tobirama's opinion — the best kind of fit. 

He likes the way Madara wears it. Dark gray cashmere against pale skin, the neckline stretched too wide to accommodate his slender frame, slipping off a gracile shoulder. 

Long rays of summer sun steal into the living room of Tobirama's apartment, warming them in pale gold. Tobirama doesn't comprehend how Madara could stand to dress like this in such infernal weather. 

Madara does not seem to mind. He sits in Tobirama's old sweater, in his own orange boxers, eyes glued to the TV. There is a guy onscreen riding what appears to be some kind of vibrating cushion. Madara seems fascinated by it.

Madara has always been a kind of anomaly, and Tobirama _hungers._

He marks a page in the book he'd only been half-reading. He sets it on the coffee table, where it is quickly forgotten. Madara is a beautiful, distracting thing; the curve of his bony shoulder, enticing. Tobirama can't help but press his lips against it. 

He hears Madara's breath hitch. Subtle, quiet, but it's there. The summer heat makes him unusually subdued. Tobirama knows this, like he knows the sensitivity of Madara's skin, how he tastes clean and electric all at once, a current upon Tobirama's tongue. 

Madara tilts his head, baring the flesh of his neck. His eyes slip closed. Tobirama claims his tacit offering. He kisses the subtle lines of Madara's neck, teeth grazing along the vein, the pulse point. He can feel it quicken beneath the nip of his teeth. 

Tobirama turns Madara toward him. He slides the sweater off Madara's frame. Pushes him down till his back is pressed against the couch. Works his way out of his own clothes, quick, efficient. He doesn't take his time, doesn't care to make a show of it. All he cares about is _Madara, Madara, Madara,_ quiet and compliant before him.

Madara's eyes remain closed. His mouth does not. It parts like an invitation. Tobirama does not hesitate to accept it. 

He kisses Madara, swallows the quiet of his whimpers, the sweet warmth of his breath. He kisses the top of Madara's chin, the soft flesh beneath it. Kisses his way down Madara's Adam's apple, the point between his collarbone, his chest, his stomach, his hip. 

Madara's boxers are in the way. He wants out of them. Tobirama is aware of this too, but does nothing to help. Not yet. He lowers his head. His mouth traces the hard line of Madara's cock. 

Above him, the sound of Madara's gasp. He doesn't have to look to know that Madara's eyes have flown open in pleasured shock. 

Tobirama smirks against the orange fabric. Smirks against the wet spot that's rapidly darkening the front of those boxers. 

Madara's hand in his hair. His heel against Tobirama's ribs. His voice is nothing but quiet pants. His body is screaming, _Please._

Tobirama can feel it in the way Madara trembles, in every desperate tremor of his fingers, his flesh. 

He raises his head. Licks along the point where Madara's skin vanishes into the stupidly bright fabric of his shorts. He licks his way upward, feeling the soft clench of muscles beneath Madara's stomach, the hard lines of his ribs. He kisses his way through the rise and fall of Madara's chest, his rapid fire heartbeat, his trip hammer pulse, his lips that beg without words. 

Tobirama's hand finds its way past the waistband of Madara's underwear. His gaze finds Madara's own, settles there like he's found his way home.

The boxers come off. Tobirama slides them past Madara's fishbelly-pale thighs, past his knees, his shins, his ankles. He pulls back and watches. His gaze, appraising. Ravenous. 

Madara is not well-defined. He is pale, thin, stuck somewhere between a boy and a man. Sweat plasters his unruly hair to his forehead, his neck. His eyes are bright like the spark of a gun. He's all bones and passion and too much temper, a wild heart beneath the messy trappings of a sixteen-year-old body.

Tobirama will never tire of looking at him. 

Madara reaches for him. His fingers come to rest around Tobirama's dogtagged chain. He tugs, and Tobirama can feel the pull of it against his nape. He knows that, later, he would run his fingers along the pattern imprinted upon his skin and think of _this._

Of Madara, insistent. 

Madara, with his face full of want. 

Madara, spreading his legs. 

Tobirama falls. He never fails to fall, into Madara's gaze, his need, his returned hunger. Tobirama engulfs him, drowns all of Madara's feverish kisses with his own. His hand fumbles for the lube stuck somewhere between the couch cushions. They barely utter a sound. 

The tube is two-thirds empty. Tobirama makes quick work of uncapping it, squeezing a sticky mess onto his fingers, pressing it against Madara's asshole, coating his own cock. 

Madara's a little louder now, breath rough and sharp in the heat. His whimpers, desperate. Tobirama can hear the ache of them, echoed in his breaths, in his thundering heart. 

He slides in. It is an amazing, breathtaking thing, how easily they fit together. Almost as if their bodies were designed with each other in mind, like puzzle pieces, or tumblers and keys, or some other corny ass shit like that.

His body is large, easily dwarfing Madara's own. Tobirama hovers over him, the space between their bodies ending where Tobirama lies balls-deep in Madara's ass. 

Madara is impossibly flushed, impossibly hot, impossibly tight all around him. Tobirama moves and the heat pours off him, swirls all around them. Madara reaches for his chain again. Tobirama follows, letting Madara guide him to his lips, letting their bodies collide, their hearts thunder in sync in this fevered heat.

Tobirama _hungers._ His kisses find their place against Madara's own. His cock finds its rhythm in and out of Madara's ass. The heat of his flesh. The rush of his blood. The tremor beneath his bones. They all find their home here. In this cloistered little world in a stupidly tiny apartment on a stupidly hot summer's day.

Tobirama fucks Madara as if he could fuck him out of his skin. Fuck him till all he'd feel is _Tobirama_ in his veins, his blood, within the marrow of his bones.

He sets a ruthless pace. Madara's whimpers give way to moans give way to almost-screams. His limbs — all four of them — are vise-tight around Tobirama's muscular frame. 

Tobirama's teeth meet the soft flesh beneath Madara's chin. He knows it is one of Madara's erogenous zones. He bites down hard. Tastes blood and skin and sweat beneath his tongue. Tastes the accelerated tremors of Madara's body. 

The sharp intake of his breath. The heels that dig into his lower back. Fingernails denting his flesh. It is too much. It is not enough. Tobirama hungers and _wants._

Madara's hair. It stays plastered to his neck. It does not yet reach his shoulders. But it is long enough, and Tobirama does not hesitate to grab it, dark threads in a tight fist. His gaze holds Madara captive, the way his hand does. 

Madara has always been this prideful thing. But in Tobirama's hold, he lies vulnerable. Tobirama knows that Madara is only ever vulnerable with _him._

He blankets Madara's body with his own. He can feel the pulse of Madara's cock against his stomach. His grip doesn't loosen around Madara's hair. Madara's legs tighten around him. His ass is this blessed, clenching thing around Tobirama's cock. 

The heat builds. It feels like an inferno. It feels like burning from the inside out. Tobirama is more than happy to be burned till he is nothing but smoke and ash.

And in the same moment, they come. 

It hits him, white-hot and blade-sharp, hard and violent like a bullet. His fists clench, against the couch, in Madara's hair. He inhales against the corner of Madara's lip, inhales the scent and taste and feel of him. 

Madara comes with a cry that sounds a lot like Tobirama's name. He is a trembling mess beneath the cover of Tobirama's body. Tobirama can feel all of him. His breath that's stuttered with pleasure and heat. His cock that's wet and throbbing between them. The desperate way he clings to Tobirama through it all, like he'd disintegrate if he let go.

  


* * *

  


The sun has set. 

Tobirama does not reach for the light. He watches Madara, bathed in the flickering colors of whatever asinine infomercial is playing on the TV.

They are both still naked. He had wiped the sweat and cum off their bodies with his Dark Side Invasion t-shirt. It now lies in a rumpled mess with the rest of their clothes, strewn about the floor like a careless afterthought.

Madara is asleep, curled into himself, head pillowed on the armrest.

Tobirama reaches for his hair. He brushes dark strands from Madara's temple, traces the curve of his cheek. He watches him breathe. He thinks himself lucky.

He thinks, _Yes._


End file.
